Photography by Amy Shore for Petrolicious
The moon. That fantastic rock that lights up our dark, night skies and orbits our planet in an elliptical path. At its furthest point from earth, the moon is precisely 252,088 miles away. Since moving to a village in Leicestershire named Kirby Muxloe, over 40 years ago, Barry Cole has travelled further than the distance to the moon in over 20 different Hillman Imps.
Barry’s first Imp, a Singer Chamois, rolled onto his drive in 1967, just four years after they arrived on UK roads. It housed a rear mounted, overhead cam, aluminium 875cc engine and was soon termed “The Poor Man’s Porsche”, Barry tells me.
“Our most enjoyable times with Imps was in the seventies,” Barry tells me as I ask him to recall a fond anecdote regarding the Imp. “We used to put the rear seats down and make up a large bed. Then at midnight we would carry our three infants from their beds and put them in the car. We would then drive to South Devon and the kids would wake as we arrived at the seaside - those were the days!”
The moon. That fantastic rock that lights up our dark, night skies and orbits our planet in an elliptical path. At its furthest point from earth, the moon is precisely 252,088 miles away. Since moving to a village in Leicestershire named Kirby Muxloe, over 40 years ago, Barry Cole has travelled further than the distance to the moon in over 20 different Hillman Imps.
Barry’s first Imp, a Singer Chamois, rolled onto his drive in 1967, just four years after they arrived on UK roads. It housed a rear mounted, overhead cam, aluminium 875cc engine and was soon termed “The Poor Man’s Porsche”, Barry tells me.
“Our most enjoyable times with Imps was in the seventies,” Barry tells me as I ask him to recall a fond anecdote regarding the Imp. “We used to put the rear seats down and make up a large bed. Then at midnight we would carry our three infants from their beds and put them in the car. We would then drive to South Devon and the kids would wake as we arrived at the seaside - those were the days!”
As I stood admiring the Imp, Barry jangled the set of little silver keys towards me and asked if I wanted to take it for a spin. After no hesitation, I hopped in. The recently reupholstered seats were comfortingly warm from the sun as I sat in the driver’s seat. I was impressed to see a number of near-extinct cassette tapes in the driver’s door compartment, free from the used parking meter tickets and chocolate wrappers that decorate my own door compartment.
Barry settled into the passenger seat next to me and told me that the Imp can reach eighty mph; however, he and his wife cruise at a pleasant sixty for the joy of it. With the doors cleanly clicked shut, I go to start the engine. Now, this is the part where I should admit that I temporarily marveled at how Barry and his family had managed to travel further than the distance to the moon in their Imps. As the engine repeatedly turned over for a number of attempts, life finally kicked into the car and we were off. My short drive gave me a glimpse of those days in the seventies, coasting along in the sun. All I can say about my journey is that I wished that the airstrip we were on was longer. I regretfully pulled up and began mentally counting out my piggybank, considering the cost of one of these truly delightful cars.
